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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23565598">gather me up</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualbird/pseuds/casualbird'>casualbird</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Explicit Consent, First Time, Gentle Sex, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Pre-Canon, Somewhat, and how to deal with it, pre-fanatical aelfric</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:35:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,709</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23565598</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualbird/pseuds/casualbird</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"A praying man, Aelfric’s long had trouble with his knees. But now, at such a gift, and from Seteth... he’s no longer certain they’ll even hold him up."</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>essentially, a study on what would happen had Aelfric dealt with his Sitri issues in a remotely healthy fashion. set between 10 and 15 years pre-canon, before Aelfric found that thing that made him be Like That. i wanted to examine what he'd've been like--his road to hell really was paved with good intentions.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Seteth/Aelfric</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>gather me up</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>it may interest you to know that the title of this work in my gdocs was 'the aelfrick-frack'</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <i>Ethereal Moon</i>
  </p>
</div>Aelfric can’t help being wary of Garreg Mach administration. Even if he himself counts among that cabal, even if it’s everything he’s known since a child, an acolyte... it’s different, now. Leading Abyss, Aelfric’s been confronted with any number of unsavory realities--poverty, vice, things his Ashen Wolves should never have to tangle with. The worst for him, though, is the hypocrisy. Certainly, Sothis commands her flock to practice charity, care for the less fortunate. And certainly, this message is handed down every Sunday at mass, but all it is is lip service, no better than hearsay. The bishops in their cloth-of-gold, the cardinals who glut themselves on roasts and wine while the Ashen Wolves make do with scraps.<p>He tries to be patient with them. Truly, these changes are difficult. People have told him, with varying degrees of bitterness, that he is a man beyond his time.</p>
<p>The Archbishop’s new advisor, he thinks, readying to step into the meeting hall, will be no different. A stern man, he’s heard. Stiff.</p>
<p>Aelfric steels himself.</p>
<p>But there--there could really be no preparation for seeing him. The breath goes out of him all at once, and Aelfric isn’t sure how long he stands there, just that he is arrested, paralyzed.</p>
<p>The advisor--he smiles tightly, says to simply call him Seteth--could not be more familiar.</p>
<p>His hair is the color of jade, of early-summer grass, of shimmering fish scales, and it lays loose in gentle waves about his shoulders. His dress is--conservative, practical, deep blues and blacks. Gold accents, but not nearly enough to be ostentatious.</p>
<p>The worst of it, though, is his <i>face.</i> In an instant Aelfric is unmade by it, wonders if the others in the room can’t feel the shockwave that goes through him at the sight of those fine features, the noble placidity that glazes them.</p>
<p>Aelfric staggers to his seat, waves off the people who ask him if he’s <i>quite</i> well, stares into the scratches on the tabletop and forgets, entirely, to doubt the new arrival.</p><hr/>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <i>Guardian Moon</i>
  </p>
</div>“I have heard some troubling rumors,” says Seteth, having pulled him aside after a meeting. Aelfric cringes. Has one of his students...?<p>That should be his first concern--and it is. But Seteth stands so near to him, his tone so tight-laced--Aelfric isn’t certain how to keep a hold of his composure.</p>
<p>“I am given to understand that there is a... secret city, below Garreg Mach. And that you, Cardinal Dahlman, are the man to speak to on the matter.”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Pray tell me... Well, I think I should like to know everything.”</p>
<p>Aelfric feels as if he doesn’t <i>breathe</i> until he’s gotten through it all, staggering out of Seteth’s office hours later. There’s a lightness in his head and a slip of parchment in his hand, bearing dates and times for upcoming appointments.</p>
<p>He’s not certain how he’ll manage to do it <i>again.</i></p><hr/>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <i>Pegasus Moon</i>
  </p>
</div>Sometimes, when Seteth is upset, he looks to Aelfric like an avenging angel. Proud, purposeful, with a certain authority that feels as if it doesn’t come from his position at Garreg Mach, from some list of rules he’s been obliged to enforce. It just <i>radiates</i> from him, the notion that things ought to be better—more proper, more efficient, kinder than they are.<p>Today, trudging into Aelfric’s makeshift office… he only looks exhausted.</p>
<p>“Good afternoon,” Aelfric says, and is acutely aware of the instability in his tone. “Seteth… are you well?”</p>
<p>With a slow shake of the head, Seteth schleps across the room, practically liquefying into a dingy chair. He does his level best to look well-bred in the process, but the veil is clearly slipping.</p>
<p>He sits a moment, choosing words the way he might a pair of cufflinks, making quite certain to find the correct ones for the situation.</p>
<p>“It has been an exceptionally long day,“ he settles on, “considering that it is only half five.”</p>
<p>Aelfric nods, and despite himself, a wan little smile crosses his face. Watered down, like the soup the innkeeper makes when supplies are scarce. It is… gratifying, he would say, to be entrusted with this.</p>
<p>“How so?” he offers, not really expecting an answer.</p>
<p>But Seteth sighs, as if the full weight of the monastery above rests literally upon him, and speaks.</p>
<p>“I’ve had to write another letter today, to house Gautier, concerning their son. I don’t doubt you’ve heard of him—Miklan?” He doesn’t wait for Aelfric to respond, but, yes. He has. Miklan is not an infrequent visitor to Abyss, treating it the way some Officer’s Academy students do, as a personal playground.</p>
<p>“He’s—oh, I’ll not even get into what he’s done. It’s always the same—licentiousness, drink, avoiding classes—and there’s no reasoning with him! Nor with his parents, by So—good Goddess, it’s not even a <i>secret</i> that they’ve only sent him to Garreg Mach to have him out of their hair.” He harrumphs, and Aelfric can’t help but shift away from the back of his chair, lean in. There it is, that righteousness.</p>
<p>“No matter how soon graduation is, I ought to have him sent directly home, see how they like that. A nightmare, truly, and one his professor is utterly unequipped to deal with...” A breath, then, dredged up from deep. “My goodness, Aelfric, I do apologize, I’ve—spoken indiscreetly. Uncharitably.”</p>
<p>Aelfric only shakes his head, still half-smiling.</p>
<p>“I-if you like, after we’ve finished… I could give you some advice. My students are… Well, the Ashen Wolves can be… challenging. It’s not their fault,” he adds, stumbling over the words, “they’ve much to contend with. I would be quite happy to share with you what I’ve learned, after quite some trial and error.”</p>
<p>Seteth nods then, slowly, and Aelfric can just see a trace of his own weary, dilute smile.</p><hr/>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <i>Great Tree Moon</i>
  </p>
</div>Seteth is not always at the forefront of Aelfric’s mind, not the way that Sitri was. This feels right--he’d decided long ago that she was irreplaceable.<p>Besides. He’s got the Ashen Wolves to look after, now, and they command more time, more effort, more empathy than he could ever have predicted. But this, too, feels right. Despite their difficulties, they are as bright and wide-eyed and good-hearted as any other youths, and they deserve his attention. His guidance, his tutelage.</p>
<p>Well, they deserve much better, really.</p><hr/>
<p>It happens on a day so lovely that brisk, clear spring air carries down even to the margins of Abyss. Aelfric stands near the stairs, listens to the keeper’s chatter, breathes.</p>
<p>And then startles, terribly, at some awful discord.</p>
<p>For a moment, the clatter is so great that he conjures fire to his fingertips, shifts his stance to fend off a raid. But it’s... no raiding party.</p>
<p>It’s <i>Seteth,</i> wielding a rolled-up parchment like a scepter, heading a great battalion of Garreg Mach custodians. They’ve scarves tied across their faces, battered aprons like mail-shirts, mops like pikes. Some carry water, some great buckets of tar, some saws and hammers--a menagerie of maintenance.</p>
<p>“To--to what do I owe this?” Aelfric can barely push the words out, dispelling his flames, extending an arm so the keeper won’t raise the hue and cry.</p>
<p>Seteth’s arms cross resolutely, and he smiles. He looks like a statue, like something that ought to stand twenty feet high at a grand seat of justice, of power. “Our conversations struck a chord in me, I suppose... I can only hope that I am not imposing. I feel it behooves me to be of assistance. Though it may be called Abyss, I daresay that it need’nt be a <i>hole.”</i></p>
<p>There’s nothing for Aelfric to do but shake his head, try to keep his jaw in place. People... people might think of it this way, might be leery... Surely, he could speak to them, he’d never been offered such... charity.</p>
<p>A praying man, Aelfric’s long had trouble with his knees. But now, at such a gift, and from Seteth... he’s no longer certain they’ll even hold him up.</p>
<p>He can only scramble, can only struggle to find the words to thank him.</p><hr/>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <i>Harpstring Moon</i>
  </p>
</div>It’s a surprise that after so long, Seteth hasn’t spoken to him yet in the churchyard. Aelfric goes at least twice each week, brushing off headstones, clearing away withered flowers, putting out fresh ones. Whispering to Sitri, if he’s anything to say.<p>They often cross paths, there. Seteth doesn’t tend any grave in particular, just... lays his palms flat on the weathered stone wall, watches the meandering clouds. Sighs often, and the same way every time--as deep and heavy as the pressure at the seafloor, exhausted.</p>
<p>Aelfric nods to him on his way out, as always, hands folded demurely at his waist. Walks on, until a sharp breath, an abortive half-word halt him.</p>
<p>“I... can’t say that I don’t envy you, Aelfric.”</p>
<p>“H-how so?”</p>
<p>But Seteth only shakes his head, fingers curling into loose fists. “Never mind it.”</p>
<p>“No, please.”</p>
<p>Another one of those sighs. Seteth turns--his face is dour. Not grim, though; the edges have been rounded off, like a stone worn smooth in a stream. “Never let it be said that I am not... appreciative, of my position here. Despite the strain, it is important work, and I am honored to have been entrusted with it.”</p>
<p>“I know just what you mean,” says Aelfric, smiling fond. The work is a balancing act, a push and pull, a ratio of compassion to prudence to self-maintenance that must be adjusted by the day. Seteth, he knows, feels this just as acutely as he does.</p>
<p>A little nod from Seteth, and--a half-imagined upturn of his lips, a small vestigial smile. Aelfric is put in mind of what Seteth has told him at the ends of their long meetings, as the dregs of their midnight oil burns away. <i>It is good to have you for a colleague. It is good to have you for a friend.</i></p>
<p>“My point is,” says Seteth, almost abruptly, “when I see you tend the graves, I... can’t help but feel a little homesick. I-I’ve lost my wife, years ago, and leaving her... was difficult.”</p>
<p>His posture wilts. Aelfric wants to go to him, lay a hand on one slumped shoulder.</p>
<p>Before he can, though, Seteth sighs. Shakes himself out of it, pinching the bridge of his nose.</p>
<p>“It is beside the point,” he says, strapping on his brusqueness like a breastplate. “Though I mourn her still... the last thing she would want for me would be to... to perseverate on the matter.” A huff, and if he’d armored himself--there were tears in the tabard now, scratches in the plate beneath.</p>
<p>Aelfric has never seen his compatriot--his friend--falter so. Fortunately, of all the challenges that face him, everything he is confronted with on a given day, finally Aelfric feels as if he is the man for the job.</p>
<p>He takes those steps forward, lifts, uncertainly, that hand.</p>
<p>“I believe that I can understand,” he murmurs, voice as gentle as his touch. “Loss is like... a wounded joint. Though it heals, though you return to your own life... it will always ache in the rain. And other times,” he adds, free hand traveling to the back of his neck. “Not always when you’re expecting it.”</p>
<p>Another sigh, and a flutter of wet eyelashes--but alongside the slightest nascent smile.</p>
<p>“There is sense in that,” Seteth admits, with a tight nod.</p>
<p>“I should hope so, I’d hate to be unhelpful. Now--shall we see about finding you a cup of tea?”</p>
<hr/>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <i>Garland Moon</i>
  </p>
</div>When Aelfric returns to his office one afternoon, he finds a cluster of white flowers on his desk. Slapdash-wrapped in crumpled butcher paper, dripping water and petals onto his important papers, as dishevelled as anything else in Abyss.<p>Beside it lies a note on scrap paper, unsigned but incontrovertibly the scrawl of one of his dear students.</p>
<p><i>It’s the Garland Moon,</i> it reads, <i>and that green guy isn’t half bad.</i></p>
<p>He’s touched--the joy of acknowledgement, of rapport with any of his students never wanes.</p>
<p>
  <i>PS: You’re a good guy. You could stand to get laid.</i>
</p>
<p>So perhaps the touch is a bit more of a pinch; a cheeky, teasing thing. Perhaps the joy wanes a little. But not that much.</p>
<p>
  <i>PPS: I hope it’s okay they’re not roses. Also, please don’t ask me where I got them.</i>
</p>
<p>Aelfric gathers them up, puts them in an old chipped stoneware vase. Contemplates them, as he works, gives as much effort to working out what to do with them as he does to budgeting, to lesson plans.</p>
<p>In a couple of days, when they threaten wilting, when they’re beyond the help of a quick healing cantrip, he wraps them in frayed ribbon.</p>
<p>Two bundles. One, of course, lies graveside, but the other...</p>
<p>He leaves it, breathless, before Seteth’s closed door. Makes haste to retreat, slipping shy along the walls, hoping he isn’t seen.</p><hr/>
<p>Aelfric thinks of the innermost alcove of the library, the soft-upholstered chair where Sitri often sat, slim legs tucked beneath her. A tome in her lap, always, on herbalism, folklore, fine cookery. Perhaps the constant reading was what gave her that air--that sense of wisdom beyond her experience. Perhaps she was just intuitive, just kind.</p>
<p>How many times, Aelfric wonders, had he been too shy to ask something of her? About the transit of the stars, the history of the world, the secretive Archbishop who doted on her so? About Sitri herself?</p>
<p>He’d have gone to her now, would have taken the seat opposite hers, folded clammy hands in his lap.</p>
<p>
  <i>Tell me honestly, please, Sitri, have I betrayed you?</i>
</p><hr/>
<p>When next they see each other, though there is business to be done across the Cardinal’s Room table, Aelfric can think of nothing but the timbre of Seteth’s voice, like a tidy, well-strung bed. Pared-down, practical, no nonsense.</p>
<p>Sitri was always... quiet. And quick with her little jokes--since all her life was observation, she’d become quite apt with observational humor. And her hair... more of a sage tone, and she hardly had Seteth’s broad, strapping frame, his grand imperious height...</p>
<p>Sitri would always be out of reach, as she always had. Would always be impossible to replace.</p>
<p>So it seemed right, Aelfric thought, when it dawned upon him that he was not replacing her at all.</p><hr/>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <i>Blue Sea Moon</i>
  </p>
</div>When Seteth finds himself capable of extending his hand, Aelfric finds himself capable of taking it.<hr/>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <i>Horsebow Moon</i>
  </p>
</div>The students, Aelfric hears, have taken to betting which of the nights Aelfric takes tea in Seteth’s room will be the first on which he doesn’t return before morning.<p>He tells Seteth of this, with weak laughter, and his companion only sighs, shakes his head.</p>
<p>Still, he smiles.</p>
<p>Not a fortnight after that, they make a winner of somebody.</p><hr/>
<p>Aelfric hopes that he looks elegant, going to his knees. Likely not--he’s trembling, stuttering in his movements even though the gesture is so familiar. He wonders, how could he be so staggered, so clumsy? He makes this motion thrice per day at the very least. Imagines it more.</p>
<p>Face tilting up, teeth worrying his lower lip, Aelfric opens his eyes.</p>
<p>It takes a moment, placing Seteth’s expression, but it’s... Aelfric feels the way he did as a young man, when last he rode a wyvern, when it’d been decided that he was more for holy books than holy wars. Like falling.</p>
<p>Seteth wears the face of the instructor who’d watched him hit the ground, watched the breath forced out of him. The word, Aelfric figured, belatedly, was probably <i>shock.</i></p>
<p>“Aelfric...” Even in Seteth’s stunned hush, Aelfric thrills to hear his own name. “If I’ve ever given you the impression...” A sigh.</p>
<p>Teeth punish the insides of Aelfric’s cheeks. He feels a bit ill. “I--my apologies. Ought I... take my leave?”</p>
<p>“No, no! That is, unless you woud prefer. My dear...” Seteth hesitates, shepherding his words like wayward students. “I simply--I could not expect <i>this</i> of you.”</p>
<p>Aelfric can only dip his head, shake. “I want to,” he whispers, and prays that Seteth will not ask him to elaborate. Not to speak, hoarse and halting, of the times he’s envisioned this, envisioned giving himself over to Seteth, as his esteem--as his prudence, his kindness, his <i>beauty</i> entreats. How he has imagined Seteth’s fingers in his hair so deeply he can <i>feel</i> them, and the weight in his mouth, the ache of his jaw.</p>
<p>“I am flattered,” says Seteth, and Aelfric runs cold--this, then, is how it will end. “But I could not...” Another pause, gravid. “I am not here to--to lord over you. I am here,” and his voice catches, like scraping lacquer from wood, showing the splinters, “to make love with you.”</p>
<p>There’s nothing, save divine intervention, that could tell Aelfric what to say. Seteth only smiles down at him, extends a hand.</p>
<p>“May I take you to bed?”</p>
<p>“Please,” he murmurs, fumbling until their fingers are nigh-irrevocably twined. Something tells him not to seem too overeager, that he wobbles at the edge of the pathetic, but there’s no way he can stop.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I--” he continues, and then falters. Seteth’s eyes close, and his hand lies patient in Aelfric’s, thumb tracing soft circles over a knuckle. “I want to--if it wouldn’t be--I <i>would</i> like to m-make love.”</p>
<p>“Then... how would you have me?” Little eggshell cracks show in Seteth’s tone, and there’s something to it that sways Aelfric even more than when he is stiff, commanding. It echoes in him like a shout down a well.</p>
<p>It’s an open-ended question, and Aelfric finds himself speechless, but not for lack of words. Not at all, he’s <i>spoiled</i> for choice, they crowd the back of his throat like moths to a lantern, flittering about. <i>Hold me tighter,</i> perhaps, <i>shelter me, guide me. Gather me up, make me</i> yours.</p>
<p>“I am uncertain,” he admits, and ducks his head, takes in once more the clean scent of Seteth’s cassock. “I have never...”</p>
<p>He feels Seteth’s nod, the soft rumble of sage humming. “All’s well,” Seteth assures him, and his tone is as gentle as ever he’s heard it, as light as the breath itself, warm at the shell of his ear.</p>
<p>“We are intelligent men,” he continues, caressing the ridge of Aelfric’s spine. “We’ll work something out.”</p><hr/>
<p>And they do, in whispers, short sentences. In an abundance of questions--direct, practical, and then light, like the flutter of eyelashes on skin. <i>Are you sure? Is this what you’d like?</i></p>
<p>Seteth asks to take him to bed, to lay him out, to kiss him. Waits for leave to touch every new sliver of his skin, to shower adoration on his neck, his breast, the awkward knob of his shoulder.</p>
<p>There is a moment of breathing room, while Seteth folds Aelfric’s robes, lays them out on the nightstand. And though--though there is barely a candle still burning in Aelfric’s mind, he knows it ought to be the other way round. He should be stroking Seteth’s collarbones, drifting fingertips through the hair at his chest. Should be kissing down that abdomen--it was so taut, so solid beneath his hands while Seteth had lavished his wiry neck with kisses...</p>
<p>Seteth shrugs out of his undershirt completely, then, and though Aelfric cannot help but be spellbound at the pale of ever-covered skin, the crisscrossing battle scars that adorn him, it only makes the impulse worse. It thrums in him, lurches, aches.</p>
<p>“I want,” he mumbles, “I want to be good for you. F-for both of us,” he adds, hasty, still stinging just a little.</p>
<p>And Seteth smiles, dearly, divinely soft-eyed, and guides Aelfric down again, until his perenially sore back sinks into the rich duvet. “I know,” he rasps, the ends of his hair teasing Aelfric’s cheeks. “I’ve an idea--let me know what you think.” A gentle kiss serves for punctuation, and Aelfric shivers. “You are under no obligation.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” he whispers, and is utterly helpless. More so when Seteth leans into the shell of his ear, ther cheeks aligned, and whispers it, breath warm and gentle at thin skin, and Aelfric nearly loses himself just then.</p>
<p>Doesn’t, though. Bites his lip, holds out long enough to finish undressing, to quiver through the drag of Seteth’s rough palms down his sides. To be gathered up so close, so steady in his arms that if it’d been a challenge not to spend himself, it was more so to keep from tearing up.</p>
<p>And for a time, this is all. Seteth holds him, pets his back, the sharp edges of his bones. Whispers to him, and doesn’t seem to mind when Aelfric doesn’t reply, choosing instead to hide his face in the crook of Seteth’s shoulder, to shift and sigh against him.</p>
<p>“Are you ready?”</p>
<p>
  <i>“Yes...!”</i>
</p>
<p>“Let me,” Seteth murmurs, so close he must have hair in his mouth, so serene that it’s as if he’d preferred it that way. And Aelfric nods, and lets himself be gentled, guided until he’s rocking between Seteth’s corded thighs, and needs gentled even more.</p>
<p>Seteth knows, and strokes his hair, his hips, the tremoring muscles of his back. Moves with him, cautious without sacrificing his assurance, fluidity. There is no word for it but <i>overload,</i> and then on top of that...</p>
<p>He’s speaking to him still, in a hitching whisper, lips and stubble dragging sweet across Aelfric’s forehead, and it’s too much. <i>Good,</i> he tells him, <i>not to worry, you’re lovely, you’re fine.</i></p>
<p>And he shivers--the both of them do, but it’s another thing entirely coming from Seteth, who could have been marble, granite, vaunted on a pedestal somewhere. Who’d always seemed untouchable, coming apart at Aelfric’s side, at the shuddering, shifting warmth of him--it’s too much, and Aelfric bites off a wail, spilling helplessly, whimpering <i>I’m sorry, I’m sorry...</i></p>
<p>But he is only held tighter--more firmly, securely against that solid chest. Only soothed, kissed gently at the part of his hair, only reassured, in a soft and certain tone, that all is well.</p>
<p>Perhaps it is.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello!!!! thank you so very much for reading! i hope you enjoyed it as much as i did the writing process, it was a lot of fun exploring!</p>
<p>i'd be much obliged if you'd let me know what you thought of this fic, and if you like, you may talk about anime chess dads with me on <a href="https://twitter.com/bird_scribbles">twitter!</a></p>
<p>thank you!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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